


Put Me Back Together (or how all the avengers learn to help steve chill tf out)

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Anger Management, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Zola is an asshole, i swear this is softer than it looks, so is all of hydra, this is really just steve getting comforted by everyone, winter soldier angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Or several times where Steve felt completely out of his depth and his friends helped him out.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 72





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is a completely self-indulgent steve angst fic with lots of hurt/comfort:)
> 
> Many shoutout and thanks to my beta, Whiz, who helped me flesh out these ideas and is constantly making sure I sound coherent. 
> 
> TWs for this chap: panic attacks, vomiting, descriptions of torture. 
> 
> See end notes for a more detailed summary of what this chapter contains if any of those tws sound so-so

The minute they climb into Sam’s 2012 Mazda, parked inconspicuously a few blocks away from the cemetery, Sam plucks the Winter Soldier file out of Steve’s hands.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, leaning over to try and wrestle the file out of Sam’s grip. His elbow catches the car horn and they both jump at the loud honk it makes, freezing mid-tustle to stare wide-eyed at the steering wheel. Steve frowns, realizing how childish he looks half on Sam’s lap. He sits back in his seat and crosses his arms, “Give it back.”

Sam levels him with a look and tosses the file onto the back seat, quipping out an, “ah ah, nope.” when Steve tries to reach back towards it. He sighs, “I’ll let you look at the file once you’ve had a proper day of rest.”

Steve’s frown deepens, “I had _several_ days of rest in the hospital!”

“Yeah, like three. No normal human should have been out and kicking as fast as you were with the caliber of your injuries, man. I’m benching you for one more day. One. You can handle that.”

Steve resists the urge to whine and instead fixes Sam with a pleading look, “Listen. I hear you, I do, and I appreciate you looking out for me, Sam. But I know myself and my limits and I’m telling you that I’m good. The serum may heal me faster than what should make sense, but it still _healed me_. I’m gonna go crazy if I rest anymore. Please, Sam, it’s just a file.”

Sam narrows his eyes and Steve lifts his chin defiantly, meeting his look glare for glare. Then, Sam rolls his eyes.

“You say you know yourself and your limits, but you still basically let Barnes kill you on that helicarrier.” He ignores Steve’s huff of protest, buckling his seatbelt and putting the car in drive. “One day. Humor me.”

“Sam-”

“ _One day_. Now, buckle up.”

Steve groans, but does as he’s told.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Sam insists that Steve stay with him seeing as Steve’s apartment is still covered in blood and debris after Bucky shot Fury through his wall, and Steve can’t find much reason to argue. He doesn’t really want to go back there anyway. Nonetheless, they stop by the apartment long enough for Steve to grab some essentials and shove them into a nondescript duffel bag, turning around last minute to grab a couple of his sketchbooks as well. He hasn’t really drawn much since waking up, but given all the shit that had gone down in the last week, he’s had a sudden urge to feel the weight of a pencil in his palm again-- to feel the intimacy of the space between him and the paper. Besides, it had been too painful to draw before when a good eighty percent of his subjects were Bucky and even the thought of trying to conjure up a tangible reference in his head had made him want to throw up. Not that Bucky’s current state of being doesn’t make him nauseous, but some part of him wants to see if he can still get the strong curve of his jaw down as seamlessly as he had used to, even though it’s now framed by long hair and made sharper by the dead look in his eyes.

Steve shudders and shoves the sketchbooks in the side pocket of his duffel, not bothering to look back at his apartment as he leaves.

They get thai for dinner, as per the list in Steve’s notebook and settle in the living room to watch a show Sam had been going on about. Some deceivingly serious cartoon where the main character is a bipedal horse that leaves Steve feeling a little itchy and existential when he can find it in himself to pay attention. But mostly, he mechanically shovels green curry into his mouth and lets his mind wander. 

The three days he had spent in the hospital are hazy at best and Steve only really remembers drifting in and out of consciousness to various people sitting at his bedside. Mostly Sam, but he thinks he remembers Natasha there at one point as well, talking quietly to him when she thought he was asleep. The point is, he hasn’t really been in the state of mind to process recent events and now that he’s doing nothing. Truly doing nothing. He can feel himself starting to obsess. 

He sort of expected himself to be feeling a lot more, but he just feels confused. Off kilter and out of his depth. He’s mad at himself for not realizing sooner that something was up with Bucky back during the war. Or, he supposes he realized something was different-- it was hard to ignore the hunted look that had permanently nestled in Bucky’s gaze or the way he never quite seemed to relax or how he’d turned to Steve one time at a bar in France, eyebrows drawn together and lip chewed raw, and said, “I lost my hearing in my right ear in Azzano.” and Steve had felt like the air had been punched out of him as he hissed out a, “ _What!?_ ” And Bucky had only shook his head and looked down at his hands, sounding slightly frantic as he explained that the doctor with glasses and an accent had done something to his head--fried it, it felt like--and he’d burst an eardrum or something. There was blood, Bucky had sworn. His ear had been bleeding and he still couldn’t hear when Steve had come to rescue him but he could hear perfectly again now and that was weird, right? But Steve hadn’t really known what to say or even think and by the time he’d formulated half an answer, some sort of reassurance, the world around them had exploded and they were rushing to get civilians into the bomb shelter under the stage at the back of the bar. And thinking back now, Steve should have worried about that more, because Bucky’s hearing shouldn’t have come back--not perfectly anyway-- and damnit he should have insisted that Bucky go home. God knows he’d deserved to. But it all sort of got lost in translation. That seemed to happen a lot in war.  
So yes, he’s mad at himself for not realizing sooner that they had done something to Bucky that early and yes, he’s fucking sick with himself that he didn’t go back and at least look for Bucky’s body after he fell from the train. But mostly he’s in shock. Bucky’s alive. Fucking Christ, what are the odds?

“Steve, you okay?”

Steve only jumps a little when Sam pulls him out of his thoughts and blinks down at his curry, noting, much to his chagrin, that he’d been gripping the take-out container hard enough to puncture a hole in the plastic and spill some green sauce onto his jeans. 

He looks up at Sam, whose face is pinched in concern and trying not to show it, “Yeah,” he says. He looks at the tv and frowns when he realizes that the screen is now black, “How long was I…” 

“You were only really out of it for the last episode,” Sam says, watching Steve place his curry on the coffee table and pick at the sauce stain on his pants, “Man, you really are incapable of relaxing, aren’t you?”

Steve shrugs, “Kinda, yeah. I just-- I’ve never been great at sitting still, but right now especially knowing he’s _out there_ and he could be hurting and…and the longer we wait to get started the farther away he might be getting and I don’t want to lose him again.”

Sam just looks sad when Steve meets his gaze again, “Look, I really appreciate you taking it easy today. I know that was really hard for you, but I really just needed assurance that you’re okay. Last person I saw get shot as many times as you didn't have enough of his torso left to give him back to his folks in one piece. Why don’t we call it a night and as soon as we’re through breakfast tomorrow, we can get started sorting through that file. Sound good?”

Steve wants to make a case for staying up tonight to start, but he can admittedly feel exhaustion pulling him under and Sam isn’t looking much better. 

He musters up a smile and nudges Sam’s knee with his toe, “Yeah, sounds good. Thanks, Sam.”

“Awesome,” Sam says, nudging him back and standing, “Now help me clear this stuff.”

Despite the bone-deep exhaustion, Steve doesn’t sleep much that night. Instead, he lies listlessly on his back, staring holes in the ceiling as anticipatory thoughts about the Winter Soldier file swirl through his head. He’s morbidly curious, but the judicious side of himself knows it will be a fucking stomachache to get through. 

He makes it through until about five am when the first few rays of sunlight are snaking their way through his blinds, then gets up, pulls on his running shoes and leaves the apartment. By the time he gets back, the sun is high in the sky and a sheen of sweat is making his shirt stick to his back. Sam is in the kitchen making breakfast when he gets inside.

“You sleep at all last night?” Sam asks, barely glancing up from where he’s scrambling some eggs and adding a frankly obscene amount of cheese to them.

“Tried to,” Steve says, vaguely, ignoring Sam’s frown of disapproval, “You need help with breakfast?”

Sam looks like he wants to push the point of Steve’s unhealthy sleeping habits further, but seems to realize that it’s futile, “Yeah. Bacon’s in the fridge, can you stick some in the oven?”

Thirty minutes later, they’ve both cleared their plates and Sam’s rinsing off the dishes to put in the dishwasher. Steve’s hovering, trying to appear ready to help, but mostly thinking of the file. Eventually, Sam gives in and rolls his eyes.

“It’s in my room, bedside table drawer. Go on.”

Steve is already halfway down the hall. 

Apprehension is making his hands shake by the time he sits down back at the kitchen table and now that he’s faced with the reality of reading the file--of knowing exactly what had been done to Bucky--he’s not sure how to proceed. He glares at the file, as if staring enough will make the stupid brown folder flip open on its own so he doesn’t have to take the first step.

Sam sits down quietly across from him, “We can wait another day if you-”

“No,” Steve snaps, then winces, “Sorry. No, I’m okay. I- just give me a minute.”

Sam nods but doesn’t say anything. It’s quiet for another couple of minutes. Steve opens the file.

Bucky’s pictures are still where they were when Steve had looked in the file the day before at the cemetery. He takes a moment to run his thumb over the older one--the one from Bucky’s enlistment days. The curve of his brow, the bow of his lips, the way his hat is on straight for once. Steve swallows, shifting it downwards so he can look at the picture behind it. The long hair, the sallow skin, the sunken in cheeks. It’s not at all how Steve remembers him, yet the facts are there. The man, unconscious and unaware, encased in a chamber of some sort and looking everything like a science experiment and nothing like a living, breathing human, is Bucky Barnes. Steve’s fist clenches. 

The actual files are in Russian and Steve frowns, a sudden pit of panic forming in his gut. He’s going to have to wait to read it after all. The extent of his Russian understanding is cursory at best and certainly not enough to piece through all this information in any meaningful way. Helplessness is just starting to really engulf him when he flips to the last page of the file and finds a pink envelope that looks different from the rest. 

“What’s that?” Sam asks.

“Dunno,” Steve says, distractedly, opening the envelope with his thumb. Inside is a piece of cardstock with Natasha’s loopy handwriting and a QR code on it. 

_Look at me, going the extra mile. It’s all encrypted, don’t worry ;) xoxo_

Steve huffs out a laugh, heart pounding in his throat, “Nat. She translated it I think.” He holds up the cardstock, showing Sam the QR code, “Can you scan this onto a computer?”

“Should be able to,” Sam says. He takes the slip and reads it over, snorting a little at Natasha’s message, “I’m assuming you’ve got a computer that’s more covert than my mac?”

“Yeah, hang on,” Steve rushes back to the guest room and roots through his duffel for the old chromebook Natasha had gifted him when he first joined SHIELD. It’s supposedly secure and Steve’s only ever really used it for mission reports. He brings it back into the kitchen.

Sam pulls it towards himself and boots it up, having Steve put in his passcode before typing a few things that Steve doesn’t follow and scanning the QR code in. Immediately, digital files pop up. Steve swallows, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

He pulls the chromebook back towards himself and wills his hands to stop shaking as he makes the files fullscreen. This is it. This is actually it. Steve steels himself. He can do it. If Bucky could live it, then the absolute least Steve can do is read through all the dirty details. 

He starts reading.

The encryption is fairly easy to decipher and before he knows it, Steve’s completely absorbed in the content. It starts out surprisingly tame and the whole thing is written in a technical and detached manner. _Food allergies: none. The Asset responds well to the liquid diet. Medicinal allergies: penicillin. The Asset shows signs of anaphylactic shock when administered penicillin._

Steve frowns at that. The serum should have cured him of any allergies. A quick glance at the date tells him that these notes were taken in Azzano, well before Steve had saved Bucky and presumably before he’d been given whatever brand of the serum Zola had stuck him with. Steve feels the blood drain from his face. Christ, Bucky had already been the candidate for The Soldier when Steve had found him. He’d been part way there.

He can feel Sam looking at him across the table, “If you have other work you could be doing, I’m good looking this through by myself.”

Sam looks doubtful, “Are you sure? I don’t mind staying.”

Steve turns his gaze pleading, “Sam, I’d really like to look through this by myself.”

Sam studies him for a long moment, then sighs, “Alright, I’ll be in my office, but I’m leaving the door open. Shout if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, relieved as Sam claps him on the back on his way out of the kitchen. 

Steve takes a deep breath and keeps going. Despite the tremor in his hands, he’s able to approach the files from a fairly clinical standpoint for the first few sections of the files-- those outlining Bucky’s strengthening tests and his newly trained response times. All the physical enhancements of the serum and beneficial health qualities. 

Things go downhill when he gets to Bucky’s healing factor. How they’d burned him in increasing degrees and recorded healing times. _First degree burn: 5 min//Second degree burn: 15 min, 7 with cold water//Third degree burn: 23 min, skin regenerates at a 1:3 ratio to that of a non-enhanced individual._ The way they had sliced into his skin, carved out chunks of his flesh and broken bones, listing shorthanded qualities about how different injuries repaired themselves; how they grafted his metal arm, attaching it to his spine to ensure that it could not be easily detached after Bucky had tried to claw it off once, leaving the area infected. _Christ_. Steve closes his eyes, taking a minute to breathe through another wave of nausea. He clenches his jaw, biting his tongue until he tastes blood, then opens his eyes and continues. There are a few more pages on the metal arm. Notes on the different tactical qualities and the increasingly sick additions to the damn thing ranging from a tracker (of which there were several, including one in Bucky’s goddamn skull) to a self-destruct switch that would blow up Bucky’s entire being if activated.

Then Steve gets to the chair. 

Things sort of blur out as Steve begins to read. He’s absorbing everything, attentively and obsessively taking in every last scrap of information, but he feels strangely detached. Far away from his body. HYDRA had creatively coined it the Memory Suppressing Machine and it was horrifying to say the least. Electroshocks were administered directly to Bucky’s hippocampus, training him to suppress certain memories until their worth was no more than pain. At first, the chair had been simple enough--just a seat with handcuffs and the portion they called The Mindcrown, which did the shocking. But higher caliber restraints were added as Bucky began to struggle more and _The Asset shows no memory of Brooklyn, however, today’s scientists noted activity in the hippocampus at the mention of The Captain. Further shocks will be administered and the voltage will be raised to[…]The Asset shows resistance towards the Memory Suppressing Machine still, but obedience is being learned[...]The Asset suffered from a seizure at 0243 due to over-administration of[...]Punishment has been further utilized and any mention of terms ‘The Captain’, ‘Captain America’, ‘Steve Rogers’, or any variation of the name now result in extreme revulsive reactions. We have successfully-_

“Steve!”

The chromebook in front of Steve closes with a thud. 

“Steve, hey, are you with me?”

Awareness slams back into Steve’s body and he lurches to the side, stomach flipping violently. Sam had apparently been prepared, though, because a trash can is hastily placed under him before he can get sick on the floor. His stomach heaves, trying to rid him of everything he’d just read. The electroshocks, the grafting and torture and restraints and the fact that Bucky had tried so hard to resist. He’d tried so fucking hard and-

“Steve, man, c’mon,” Steve feels an arm on his bicep and he’s lowered to the floor. The trash can is placed in the space between his legs and he wraps his arms around it, trying to cling onto something tangible. He’s shaking, vibrating so hard that his teeth are chattering with it. His hands and feet are tingling, pine needles piercing every nerve ending in his fingers and toes. His chest feels tight--closed up as if he were having an asthma attack--and he can hear his too-fast breathing over the blood rushing in his ears. Some distant voice that sounds strangely like Bruce supplies him with the term: panic attack. Not that terminology is helping his state at all right now, but he sure does feel panicked. 

“Okay, Steve, I need you to listen to me, okay? Do you know what’s happening to you right now?”

Steve nods. Bruce. Panic attack. He knows.

“Alright, you’re going to be okay. I’m going to put my hand on your back, is that okay?”

Steve nods again and leans into it when he feels Sam start to rub circles between his shoulder blades. He vomits again, missing the trash can a little bit even though it’s literally right in front of him. Damn this fucking shaking.

“Okay, listen to my voice. Are you listening?”

“Sam- Sam, I can’t breathe-”

“I know, just listen. I’m going to breathe really really deep to a count of 6 and you’re going to try to breathe with me, okay?”

Steve whimpers and nods. He hears Sam suck in a loud breath and he tries to follow it the way he used to follow Bucky during asthma attacks, but all he manages to do is choke out a cough.

He gasps a few times, trying to get out the words, “C-c-can’t-”

“Hey, hey, you can. It never works on the first breath, but we’re gonna getcha calmed down. Keep listening to my breathing and try to match. You can do this. You’re safe, and there is enough air. You got this.”

It takes a few long and agonising minutes, but eventually Steve is breathing more or less on his own. The shaking however has yet to diminish and Steve still feels entirely out of his mind. He turns and leans into Sam in a moment of complete vulnerability.

“I can’t stop shaking, Sam,” The words feel too big for his mouth and his voice sounds strange and distorted, “I can’t feel my legs.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, soothingly, still rubbing Steve’s back even as he accommodates his own position on the floor to support Steve against his chest, “It’s just the adrenaline. Your brain might be calming down, but your body just needs a little more time to catch up.” He pauses, letting Steve breathe for a moment, “You said you knew what that was?”

“A panic attack.” Steve supplies, fisting a hand in his own sweater as he tries to get a hold of himself. 

“You ever had one before?”

“Never that bad I don’t think,” Steve says, “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, man. It’s what I’m here for. I think we’re done with those files for a bit, though.”

Steve nods, too worn down to argue. They lapse into silence and Sam starts taking deliberate breaths again. Steve follows even though he can breathe on his own now, but it helps to stop the last of the shaking.

“When you feel up to it, you should grab a shower,” Sam says a few minutes later.

“Don’t think water’s gonna be a good idea right now,” Steve says, shifting so he’s not leaning against Sam anymore and feeling heat rise to his cheeks when he realizes he’d practically been in his lap.

Sam nods, not questioning it, “Least change, though. I don’t think you wanna stay in those jeans.”

Steve winces and he remembers not quite making it into the trash can that second time, “Shit, I’m so sorry, Sam. I can clean-”

“Dude,” Sam lifts a hand and Steve purses his lips, “Seriously. There is nothing to apologize for. I’ve been through my share of those and they suck, but it sucks even worse having to deal with the aftermath on your own. Honestly. Go change. I got this. Meet me in the living room when you’re good?”

Steve wants to argue the point, but the fight has seemingly left him because he relents. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll be right back.”

“Of course, Steve. Shoo. Go get comfy clothes on. Go.”

Ten minutes later, Steve sheepishly shuffles into the living room where Sam’s already got Star Wars cued up on the tv. 

“Hey,” Sam smiles, beckoning Steve over, “Thought we’d cross another thing off your list.”

Embarrassment is still tugging at Steve’s stomach, but Sam seems over it so he decides not to dwell. He sinks into the couch next to Sam and shoots him a small smile.

“Sounds good, yeah.”

“Awesome,” Sam grins, hitting play on the remote. 

A few minutes into the movie, Sam shifts around and props his legs up in Steve’s lap. The gesture grounds Steve in a way he can’t really pinpoint, but appreciates all the same. For the first time in a while, Steve relaxes.


	2. Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat's turn to comfort Steve! Feat. tired Sam and stressed asf stevie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> always a wonderful s/o to my beta, Whiz, for helping me figure out how to string two thoughts together:)
> 
> tws: anger breakdown type thing? it's not as intense as last chap, steve's just tired

The hunt for Bucky is beginning to feel futile. Which in and of itself is a horrifying thought. Sam’s been saying for ages that they ought to take a break--head back stateside for a bit and recoup, maybe eat a burger that isn’t raw and sleep in their own beds. Steve has been vehemently refusing that entire notion for nearly nine months, but now, as he, Nat, and Sam slink back into their hotel room in Vidin, covered in debris, blood, and failure, the first tendrils of helplessness are creeping up in his gut. 

It's not like the whole thing's been a bust. They’ve managed to infiltrate and take down probably over a hundred HYDRA bases by this point, but Bucky himself has yet to make an appearance. Remnants of him are in every base, though. There were files upon files outlining the details of his conditioning that hadn’t been included in the singularly procured one Natasha had given him: blueprints and diagnostics for arm prototypes, cryochamber stats charting the exact temperature he’d need to be frozen at to maintain homeostasis, The Chair. The goddamn fucking Chair. The first time Steve had seen it in person, he’d... lost it for lack of a better word. Blanked out in a fit of fury and only surfacing when The Chair had been demolished, palms scraped and fingers bleeding where fingernails had been torn from their beds. Sam had been crouched on the other side of the room looking desperately like he had wanted to intervene, but somehow sensing that Steve needed this. And he had. It had been one of the most cathartic things Steve had done since finding out Bucky was still alive, and he basked a little in the perceived calm that followed the rage. His fingernails grew back by that evening. 

Natasha had shown up unannounced a few months back in the hostel they’d been staying at in Belarus, hair dyed brown and cut short, and piercings lining both ears from top to bottom. It had been a relief to see her and not only because Steve and Sam sucked at the whole covert-operation-spy-thing. Steve had _missed_ her and her teasing quips and the overall ribbing presence she had. She’s always reminded Steve a little of Peggy, but she’s something entirely different as well. There’s more insecurity underneath the stoic exterior and by god does Steve understand _that_. It’s nice knowing he isn’t alone in not knowing exactly who he is. 

Still, the mission today had been one of the messier ones they’d had to handle and there is _still_ no sign of Bucky, or even any real sort of evidence of him being _alive_ and Steve is tired. He’s fucking exhausted.

He calls dibs on taking the first shower and mechanically goes through the motions of cleaning the grime off his body and blood out of his hair. Sam calls the next shower, lethargically moving to take off his tac gear and grab his duffel and Steve is vaguely worried that he’s going to fall asleep in there. Not that he’d blame him. The pull of sleep is so strong that Steve nearly face plants into the pull out couch he’s sleeping on, but by some shred of sheer, desperate will, he parks himself at the small table in the corner and pulls the latest files towards himself.

Natasha snorts from her bed, “You are so predictable.”

Steve frowns, but doesn’t look up, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re predictable,” Natasha says, sitting up and propping her chin on her hand, watching him with the same wryly smug look she always watches him with, “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find in those files that you haven’t already found in the hundreds of others you’ve been through.”

Steve scowls and doesn’t answer. He knows it’s stupid reading the same fucking information over and over in varying languages, but he can’t help the constant mantra of _what_ if that plays through his mind like a broken record. _What if there’s something new? What if I don’t read this one and I miss something important? What if I overlook something that could save Bucky? What if, what if, what if-_

It feels like this entire search is a giant what if. 

Sam comes out of the bathroom, still practically dead on his feet, but at least looking a step better than a murder scene. He blinks blearily at Steve for a moment, then sighs, grabbing his key and wallet. 

“I’m gonna go get us some dinner from that joint we passed down the street,” He says, “I don’t know what kind of food they have, but I can text you the menu?”

“Get me anything,” Steve says, still trying to piece his way through a page on Bucky’s liquid diet and caloric intake. It’s in french, which makes no fucking sense since they’re in Bulgaria right now, but Steve can’t find it in himself to question it too deeply, “Just get me _a lot_ of it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Nat?”

“Any salad, I don’t care.”

“Got it.” 

The door closes behind him and the room fades to silence once more. Steve tries to focus, but the page is starting to swim before him and frankly, he doesn’t really care to know what a protein shake that only has enough calories to maintain a super-soldier to the minimum degree entails, because it’s not useful and it’s just pissing him off and-

He flings the file away from him and it hits the wall, papers scattering across the ugly, carpeted floor. Natasha, who’d been reading one of the dime store novels that Steve picked up in Canada, jumps. 

“Steve-“

“This is _fucking bullshit!_ ” He pushes away from the table and stands furiously, increasingly feeling like he needs to hit something in a way he hasn’t since he woke up in the future. But there’s nothing to punch that Steve wouldn’t have to pay for, so instead he picks up a pillow and throws it hard against the fallen file, watching as it scatters the papers further, a few feathers puffing out of the seams. His veins feel alight with anger and suddenly, the room feels too small. He reaches up to grip his hair, “This is hopeless, Nat, this is fucking hopeless. We’re never gonna find him, he’s never gonna- fuck. He probably doesn’t even _want_ me to find him, Jesus, he probably wants nothing to do with me.” 

To his horror, Steve feels the back of his eyes beginning to burn, “He doesn’t even know me.” And just like that, the anger drains out of him, replaced with an acute ache in his chest, “He doesn’t even fucking _know who I am_.”

Natasha, who has been quietly watching his tantrum up until that point, reaches out to him and he hesitates. 

Natasha rolls her eyes, “Get over here.”

Steve goes, but doesn’t take her proffered hand, instead opting to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. His eyes are still burning and the lump in his throat is growing bigger by the second and he curls in on himself a little. Natasha rolls her eyes again and pulls him down to her chest, running a hand through his hair like his Ma used to do when he was upset. It’s strikingly maternal which Steve wouldn’t have expected from Natasha, but finds comfort in all the same. Vulnerability has always been easy with her. It has been since the start. 

“You’re right,” She says after a couple minutes of Steve pathetically sniffling and trying not to break down, “He probably doesn’t want you to find him right now, but you need to try and see this from his angle. I doubt _he_ even knows what he wants and to have the only person who managed to break his conditioning in all his seventy years of captivity chasing after him is definitely not helping him figure things out. And he definitely knows you’re looking.” She adds as an afterthought. 

Steve lies there for a moment, letting Natasha’s hand in his hair ground him and reaching up to play with the little arrow necklace that’s hanging around her neck. 

“I can’t just let this go, though, Nat. I can’t just give up and go home knowing he’s out there and possibly hurting and I could help him. _Especially_ since I’m the only person who was able to break his conditioning. I might be the only person who can help him at all.” 

“It sounds an awful lot like you’re making a choice for him there, Rogers. Don’t you think he’s had enough of people making choices for him?”

 _That_ hurts and Steve sucks in a breath, guilt crashing over him in waves. 

“Shit,” He says, finally giving up on trying to stop the tears, “ _Fuck_ , I’m awful. You’re right, I shouldn’t have-“

“Oh hush, I didn’t mean to dial your self-loathing up again. You’re doing what he probably would if the situation were reversed, I’m just reminding you to allow him his newfound autonomy. You aren’t awful, Steve. You’re one of the best people I know.” 

Steve’s crying openly now, tucking his face into her stomach and hugging his arms around her. She holds him right back.

“Shh, let it out, _solnyshko_ , let it out.” 

He’s not sure how long he cries for, but eventually the tension in his stomach and shoulders peter out and he begins to come back to himself. Natasha’s humming something and Steve lies there for another minute, letting the tune wash over him. 

“Thanks,” He says when he feels like his words won’t come out choked, “Sorry.”

“Don’t. That was long overdue. I know I’m not the type to really express this sort of thing, but I’m here for you.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “Thanks. I’m here for you, too.”

Sam comes back into the room just then, holding four bags that look like they’re fit to burst with takeout containers. He’s whistling, but the noise fades out almost comically when he looks at the pillow and file on the floor, then at the two of them. 

He frowns and says slowly, “Everything okay?”

Natasha smiles. She’s now taken to scratching at the hairs on the nape of Steve’s neck and Steve’s finding it hard to stay awake. 

The last thing he hears before nodding off is Natasha saying, “Yeah, we’re good. Everything’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs!  
> feedback is always appreciated


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's turn!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this one was strangely difficult for me to get right, but i think i'm mostly satisfied with it. thanks always to my beta, Whiz, for making sure i'm coherent!

Hoisting one of the paint gallons higher in his arms, Steve hits the elevator button with his elbow, pleasantly surprised when it dings and opens right away. The metal handle on the other paint gallon is wedged in the crook of his elbow, digging into his skin. He knows he looks ridiculous, loaded with nearly four bags of painting supplies and probably too much paint, but he doesn’t particularly care. Bucky wanted to do this, so they’re doing this.

It isn’t until he’s inside the elevator and using the toe of his boot to hit the button for his floor that Steve realizes Tony’s also inside, looking perplexed.

“You went to a Benjamin Moore store?” He asks.

Steve shifts the supplies around in his arms, “Yeah?”

Tony eyes the stuff, frowning, “This can’t be for a mural, right? Like, you wouldn’t use that kind of paint if you were doing a mural.”

“No,” Steve says, “Buck and I are painting our bedroom.”

“Oh,” Tony says, “You realize we have people in the tower who could do that for you, right? You didn’t have to go spending money.”

“I know,” Steve says, defensively, “But we figured we’d make a project of it. His idea, I was happy to oblige.”

“Suit yourselves,” Tony shrugs. It’s quiet for a moment, “How’s he doing?”

“Better,” Steve says, pleased when he finds that he means it. The last six months since Bucky turned up at Steve and Sam’s hotel in Temuco-- helping them take one last HYDRA base out, then admitting he was ready to go with them; be done with the whole atonement thing-- had been a constant push-pull. But between the highly vetted recovery team Pepper had arranged for him and Tony’s more than hospitable work on a new arm, Bucky had finally been having more good days than bad. “He’s discovered _Cosmos_ on Nat Geo. Watched through the whole series last weekend and hasn’t shut up about it since.”

Tony chuckles, “From the little I know about the guy, that seems on-brand. If he’s ever in the mood for a good sci-fi binge, tell him to come find me. I have a feeling he’d like the _Alien_ movies.”

“You bet,” Steve says as the elevator slows to a stop on his floor, “See you, Tony.”

Natasha and Bucky are sitting on the sofa when Steve gets into the apartment, shallow glasses held loosely in their grips and a bottle of vodka between them. Steve doesn’t recognize the brand; Natasha must have brought it. He smiles at them, surprised but content that she’s here. Since Bucky’s arrival, the team had hung out a few times as a group, but Steve had yet to see Bucky spend any time alone with anyone but him. Somehow, he isn’t surprised that Natasha was his first choice. 

“Hey, Nat.” 

Natasha smiles back, giving him an appraising look as he sets the bags on the ground just inside the door. 

“Hey,” She says, “James told me you’re going to paint your bedroom. You know Stark has people for that?”

Steve rolls his eyes, ignoring Bucky’s snort, “Not you, too.” He shucks off his jacket and sinks into the loveseat by the sofa.

Natasha laughs and nudges his leg with her toe, “What color?”

“ _Bachelor Blue_ ,” Bucky drawls, “Apparently they name paint colors now.”

“Bachelor _Blue_?” Natasha says, looking between them, “That’s hardly fitting.”

Steve laughs, “That’s what I said!”

Natasha nudges him again, then stands, “Alright, well, I’ll leave you boys to it.”

“You don’t have to go,” Steve says, “We weren’t gonna start today.”

“I was going to head out anyway,” She says, plucking the vodka bottle out from where it’s tucked into Bucky’s side. He grumbles something in Russian and she laughs, shooting back a retort. She’s almost out the door, when she turns back. “Steve, remember you promised me lunch tomorrow after the debriefing.” 

He gives her a thumbs up and waves, pausing for a couple seconds after the door snicks shut to turn his head lazily towards Bucky, who’s fiddling with something on his phone.

“When’d she come over?”

“Couple hours ago?” Bucky says, “It was nice catching up, I still remember when she was yea high.” He laughs to himself, looking fond, “She’s a spit-fire, that one. Always has been.”

_Wait, what!?_

“What?”

Bucky looks up at him and frowns, “What’s what?”

“What--you _knew_ her? When?”

“In the Red Room,” Bucky says slowly, mouth turned down in a way that’s so achingly _him_ that Steve almost loses track of the moment, “I trained her. Didn’t she tell you that?”

And suddenly, Steve’s entire world tilts two degrees to the left.

“No,” He says faintly, “She didn’t.” 

But the reality of it won’t stop churning in his head. Natasha _knew_. She’d _known_ that Bucky had been alive. She’d _known_ and she hadn’t said anything. Not one goddamn hint. And it’s not like she wasn’t aware of what Bucky is to Steve, even before the fall of SHIELD. Steve’s seen the history books--the biographies and film reenactments. Even if they hadn’t gotten the nature of their relationship right, the nation loved to retell his and Bucky’s story. The tale of how Captain America had gone deep into enemy lines on the slim chance of his best pal being alive. How he’d fought tooth and nail to keep him glued to his side until his untimely death, then followed not days later. Through some lens, everyone had seen how inseparable Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were.

“...Steve?”

When Steve comes back to himself, the numb shock of betrayal is sitting heavy in his gut, making his hands tremble and his chest ache. Bucky’s closer to him now, having scooched down the length of the couch to place a hand on Steve’s knee. Steve wonders vaguely if Bucky had been trying to get his attention for a while.

“Pal, you okay?”

“Yeah, I…” The anger sets in abruptly and he stands up, feeling slightly hysterical. Bucky’s hand falls from his knee. “No, I- no. She didn’t tell me. She knew, she fuckin’...I need a minute,” he looks at Bucky finally, who looks concerned and a little hurt, “It’s not you. I’m not mad at… just, I’ll be back.”

He leaves Bucky sitting on the couch and forgoes the elevator in favor of pushing open the heavy concrete doorway outside of the apartment that leads to the stairwell. He’s not entirely sure where he means to go. Part of him wants to track down Natasha, make her explain, make her feel guilt half as bone deep as he did when he’d let Bucky fall, but he knows that’s irrational. He knows that she probably had her reasons for keeping her and Bucky’s apparent alliance from him, but he can’t justify it in his head. It boils down to privacy, he supposes, but the notion of ‘Bucky’ and ‘privacy’ being used synonymously doesn’t make sense to him. He’s had people lie to him his whole life, keep things from him they thought he wouldn’t need to know or would never find out. His Ma, doctors, teachers, smiling at him with false pretenses and empty reassurances. But Bucky... _Bucky_ wasn’t something that’s ever been kept from him. Bucky, if nothing, was open. Naked and consistent.

“Hey, Cap, you need something?”

Steve blinks and realizes he’s come out at the bottom of the stairwell, right outside Tony’s labs. Tony’s looking at him from where he’d evidently just grabbed a box from one of the rooms down the hall. Steve shakes his head and steps to the side, hyperaware that he’s blocking Tony from getting into his own damned space.

“Sorry,” He says, wincing at the angry shake of his voice, “I just-”

“Whoa, you look pissed,” Tony says, giving him an exaggerated once-over, “Trouble in paradise? Painting with Barnes go south already? You know, if you’ve realized that room renovation really isn’t fun and couple-y, I could get some of the guys to-”

“We haven’t started yet,” Steve snaps, “It’s nothing.”

There’s a pregnant pause and Steve fidgets, still feeling heated and a little trapped. He turns to go, but Tony stops him.

“Hey, wait,” He says, then stops, rolling his shoulders, “I--you wanna come in for a bit? There’s a new bow I’m working on for Barton, but I can’t seem to get the handle design quite the way he wants it and you being a pseudo Picasso and all...I figure, if you-- do you wanna--you’d probably be able to do it better than I could. So, uh, help?”

Steve stares at him, anger momentarily forgotten in the face of the sheer awkwardness emanating from Tony. His shoulders drop a little and his fingers twitch at his side. If he’s being honest with himself, there’s nothing he wants more than to get his hands on a brush and focus on something other than the confused cacophony of his mind right now.

“Sure.”

Tony looks surprised, “Great! Uh, yeah, great. C’mon in.” Steve lets himself be herded inside, the knot in his chest loosening in steady increments as Tony rambles behind him, “Yeah, I mean, I could have probably done it, but it just wouldn’t turn out and you know how Clint is. He’s, like, weirdly into the stylization of it all and I figured I could probably ask Pep, but- oh speaking of! She was talking about getting you and Wilson to one of the schools in Midtown; something about a healthy eating seminar…”

Steve allows Tony’s voice to wash over him as he perches at one of the lab tables, where Clint’s bow is being propped up on a stand, golden metallic paint and a paintbrush already set underneath it. Tony slides him a paper with Clint’s desired design on it and Steve focuses on breathing, allowing the anger to dull to a weak thrum as his hands stop their tremoring. He picks up the brush and the last of it eases.

Tony’s still talking, but Steve more or less zones him out while he works, though he’s certain Tony’s not necessarily speaking with the intent of a rapt audience. It’s a calming atmosphere, the lab, peaceful in the soft whirring of whatever machine Tony is working on and the white noise of the air conditioner in the corner. It’s not dissimilar to the art classes Steve used to attend at the Art Students League--people working separately in tandem. 

He’s not sure how long passes, but eventually he’s putting the final touches on Clint’s bow, feeling pleased with his work and satisfied to see results. Tony looks up when he pushes out his chair and stops mid-sentence. 

“Feel better?” Tony asks with trained nonchalance.

Steve assesses himself, finding that yes, actually, he does feel better. Clearer, if nothing else. He still wants to talk to Natasha and he definitely needs to explain his mini-meltdown to Bucky, but at least he can do it rationally now. Have a conversation rather than an argument. 

“Yeah,” He says, a sudden rush of gratitude warming his chest. “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony softens, eyes turning sincere, “Anytime, Cap. Honestly.”

Steve nods towards the bow, “Hope that’s okay.” 

And when Tony waves it off with a distracted, “it looks great, thanks,” Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, giving Tony a little two-finger salute before slipping out of the lab. 

The air feels lighter as he starts climbing back up the stairwell and he finds himself subconsciously exiting on Natasha and Clint’s floor. Natasha doesn’t look surprised when she opens the door and steps aside to let him in.

“Figured you’d turn up here sometime today,” She says, leading him to the mini-bar, “James was more than a little confused after you fled the scene earlier. Called me in a frenzy. You’re not here to yell at me, are you?”

Steve accepts the water glass that she passes him with a smile, “No, actually, I just wanted to talk.”

Natasha blinks at him, surprised, before smoothing out her face into something more impassive. The corners of her lips quirk up as she gets herself a glass and pulls the same bottle Steve had seen her drinking with Bucky earlier from under the counter. She sits down, “Okay then, Rogers, let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs!

**Author's Note:**

> in this chapter, steve reads over bucky's winter soldier file, which contains fairly detailed descriptions of medical procedures. effects of his serum, his metal arm grafting, and electroshock torture. steve has a panic attack while reading the file and vomits as a result. 
> 
> thanks for reading, chiefs!  
> feedback is always appreciated:)


End file.
